There was a hurried rush to the scene of accident; but first aid to the
injured had already been rendered. Freddy lay on the Gym floor, pillowed
on Dan's jacket, and reviving under the ministration of a sturdy hand and
a very wet and grimy pocket-handkerchief.
"What did you go tumbling off like that for?" asked Dan indignantly as the
"angel eyes" of his patient opened.
"Don't know," murmured Freddy, faintly.
"I told you to stand steady, and you didn't,--you jumped!" said Dan.
"So--so you'd feel me," answered Fred, memory returning as the darkness
began to brighten, and Brother Bart and Brother Timothy and several other
anxious faces started out of the breaking clouds. "But I'm not hurt,--I'm
not hurt a bit, Brother Bart."
"Blessed be God for that same!" cried the good Brother, brokenly, as,
after close examination, Brother Timothy agreed to this opinion. "And it
wasn't the fault of the rapscallions wid ye that ye're not killed
outright. To be swinging like monkeys from a perch, and ye half sick and
lightheaded! Put him in the bed, Brother Timothy; and keep him there till
we see what comes of this."
So Freddy was put to bed in the dim quiet of the infirmary, to watch
developments. Brother Timothy gave him an old fashioned "drought," and he
went to sleep most comfortably. He woke up feeling very well indeed, to
enjoy an appetizing repast of chicken broth and custard. But when this
went on for two days, Freddy began to grow restless.
Infirmary life was very well in school time; indeed, when there were other
patients not too sick to share its luxuries, it proved rather a pleasant
break in the routine of class-room and study-hall. In fact, a late
epidemic of measles that filled every bed had been a "lark" beyond Brother
Timothy's suppression. But the infirmary in vacation, with no chance for
the pillow fights that had made the "measles" so hilarious, with no boy in
the next bed to exchange confidences and reminiscences, with no cheery
shouts from the playground and quadrangle, with only the long stretch of
bare, spotless rooms, white cots, and Brother Timothy rolling pills in the
"doctor shop," the infirmary was dull and dreary indeed.
"Can't I get up to-day, Brother?" asked Freddy on the third morning, as
Brother Timothy took away a breakfast tray cleared to the last crumb of
toast.
"No," replied the Brother, who from long dealing with small boys had
acquired the stony calm of a desert sphinx. Beneath it he was a gentle,
patient, wise old saint, who watched and prayed over his patients in a way
they little guessed. "No, you can't."
"Gee!" said Freddy, with a rebellious kick at the counterpane. "The bump
on my head is gone and I'm not sick at all."
"We're not so sure of that," answered Brother Tim. "You've had
temperature."
"What's 'temperature'?" asked Freddy, roused with interest.
"Never mind what it is, but you'll have to stay here till it goes,"
answered Brother Tim, with decision.
And Freddy could only lay back on his pillows in hopeless gloom, watching
the shadows of the big elm by his window flickering over curtain and
coverlet. The great elm--or "Old Top," as it had been affectionately
called by generations of students--was the pride of the college grounds.
Many a newcomer felt his heart warm to his strange surroundings when he
found the name of father or grandfather cut into the rough bark, where men
who had made later marks on history's page had left youthful sign manual.
More than once the growth of the college buildings had threatened to
encroach upon Old Top; but the big elm held its prior claim, and new
dormitory or infirmary was set back that it might rule with kingly right
in its historic place.
Many were the stories and legends of which Old Top was the hero. In the
"great fire" its boughs had proven a ladder of safety before modern
"escapes" were known. Civil-War veterans told of hunted scouts hiding, all
unknown to the Fathers, in its spreading branches; while the students'
larks and frolics to which it had lent indulgent ear were ancient history
at many a grandfather's fireside.
But, like all things earthly, the big tree was growing old; a barbed wire
fencing surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively prohibited climbing
the rotten and unsafe branches. Even cutting names was forbidden. Freddy
had been the last allowed, as the "kid" of the house, to put his initials
beneath his father's. It had been quite an occasion, his eleventh
birthday. There had been a party (Freddy always had ten dollars to give a
party on his birthday); and then, surrounded by his guests, still
gratefully appreciative of unlimited ice cream and strawberries, he had
carefully cut "F. W. N. 19--" beneath the same signature of twenty years
ago. It was then too twenty years ago. It was then too hilarious an
occasion for sad reflection; but lying alone in the infirmary to-day,
Freddy's memories took doleful form as he recalled the "F. W. N." above
his own, and began to think of his father who had vanished so utterly from
his young life.
He had only the vaguest recollection of a tall, handsome "daddy" who had
tossed him up in his arms and frolicked and laughed with him in a very
dim, early youth. He could recall more clearly the stern, silent man of
later years, of whom the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. And he
retained a vivid memory of one bewildering evening in the dusky parlor of
Saint Andrew's when a shaking, low voiced father had held him tight to his
breast for one startling moment, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear,
"Good-bye, my little son,--good-bye for ever!" It was very sad, as Freddy
realized to-day (he had never considered the matter seriously
before),--very sad to have a father bid you good-bye forever. And to have
your mother dead, too,--such a lovely mother! Freddy had, in his small
trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty as any of the angels on the
chapel windows. And now he had "temperature," and maybe he was going to
die, too, like some of those very good little boys of whom Father Martin
read aloud on Sundays.
Freddy's spirits were sinking into a sunless gloom, when suddenly there
came a whistle through the open window,--a whistle that made him start up
breathless on his pillow. For only one boy in Saint Andrew's could achieve
that clear high note. It was Dan Dolan calling,--but how, where? Freddy's
window was four stories high, without porch or fire escape and that
whistle was almost in his ear. He pursed up his trembling lips and
whistled back.
"Hi!" came a cautious voice, and the leafy shadows of Old Top waved
violently. "You're there, are you? Brother Tim around?"
"No," answered Freddy.
"Then I'll swing in for a minute." And, with another shake of Old Top, Dan
bestrode the window ledge,--a most cheery-looking Dan, grinning broadly.
"How--how did you get up?" asked Freddy, thinking of the barbed wire
defences below.
"Dead easy," answered Dan. "Just swung across from the organ-loft windows.
They wouldn't let me come up and see you. Brother Bart, the old softy,
said I'd excite you. What's the matter, anyhow? Is it the tumble--or
typhoid?"
"Neither," said Fred. "I feel fine, but Brother Tim says I've got
temperature."
"What's that?" asked Dan.
"I don't know," replied Freddy. "You better not come too near, or you may
catch it."
"Pooh, no!" said Dan, who was poised easily on his lofty perch. "I never
catch anything. But I'll keep ready for a jump, or Brother Tim will catch
me, and there will be trouble for sure. And as for Brother Bart, I don't
know what he'd do if he thought I had come near you. Jing! but he gave it
to me hot and heavy about letting you get that tumble! He needn't. I felt
bad enough about it already."
"Oh, did you, Dan?" asked Fred, quite overcome by such an admission.
"Rotten!" was the emphatic answer.
"Couldn't eat any dinner, though we had cherry dumpling. And Brother Bart
rubbed it in, saying I had killed you. Then I got the grumps, and when Dud
Fielding gave me some of his sass we had a knock-out fight that brought
Father Rector down on us good and strong. I tell you it's been tough lines
all around. And this is what you call--vacation!" concluded Dan,
sarcastically.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" said Freddy. "The tumble didn't hurt me much. I guess I
was sort of sick anyhow. And to fight Dud Fielding!" The speaker's eyes
sparkled. "Oh, I bet you laid him out, Dan!"
"Didn't I, though! Shut up one eye, and made that Grecian nose of his look
like a turnip. It ain't down yet," answered Dan, with satisfaction. "He
fired me up talking about Aunt Win."
"Oh, did he?" asked Freddy, sympathetically.
"Yes: said I ought to be ditch-digging to keep her out of the poorhouse,
instead of pushing in with respectable boys here. Sometimes I think that
myself," added Dan in another tone. "But it wasn't any of that blamed
plute's business to knock it into me."
"But it isn't true: your aunt isn't in the poorhouse, Dan?" said Freddy,
eagerly.
"Well, no, not exactly," answered Dan. "But she is with the Little
Sisters, which is next thing to it. And I ain't like the rest of you, I
know; and don't need Dud Fielding to tell me. But just let me get a good
start and I'll show folks what Dan Dolan can do. I'll be ready for
something better than a newsboy or a bootblack."
"O Dan, you'll never be anything like that!" said Freddy, in dismay.
"I have been," was the frank reply. "Given many a good shine for a nickel.
Could sell more papers than any little chap on the street. Was out before
day on winter mornings to get them hot from the press, when I hadn't
turned seven years old. But I ain't going back to it,--no, sir!" Dan's
lips set themselves firmly. "I'm on the climb. Maybe I won't get very far,
but I've got my foot on the ladder. I'm going to hold my own against Dud
Fielding and all his kind, no matter how they push; and I told Father
Rector that yesterday when they were plastering up Dud's eye and nose."
"O Dan, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did. I was just boiling up, and had to bust out, I guess. And when
he lectured us about being gentlemen, I told him I didn't aim at anything
like that. I wasn't made for it, as I knew; but I was made to be a man,
and I was going to hold up like one, and stand no shoving."
"O Dan!" gasped Freddy, breathlessly. "And--and what did he say?"
"Nothing," answered Dan, grimly. "But from the looks of things, I rather
guess I'm in for a ticket of leave. That's why I'm up here. Couldn't go
off without seeing you,--telling you how sorry I was I let you get that
fall off my shoulders. I oughtn't to have dared a kid like you to
fool-tricks like that. I was a big dumb-head, and I'd like to kick myself
for it. For I think more of you than any other boy in the college, little
or big,--I surely do. And I've brought you something, so when I'm gone you
won't forget me."
And Dan dived into his pocket and brought out a round disk of copper about
the size of a half dollar. It was rimmed with some foreign crest, and name
and date.
"An old sailor man gave it to me," said Dan, as he reached over to
Freddy's bed and handed him the treasure. "He was a one-legged old chap
that used to sit down on the wharf sort of dazed and batty, until the boys
roused him by pelting and hooting at him; and then he'd fire back curse
words at them that would raise your hair. It was mean of them, for he was
old and lame and sick; and one day I just lit out a couple of measly
little chaps and ducked them overboard for their sass. After that we were
sort of friends, me and old 'Nutty,' as everyone called him. I'd buy
tobacco and beer for him, and give him an old paper now and then; and when
he got down and out for good Aunt Win made me go for the priest for him
and see him through. He gave me this at the last. He had worn it on a
string around his neck, and seemed to think it was something grand. It's a
medal for bravery that the poor old chap had won more than forty years
ago. Ben Wharton offered me a dollar for it to put in his museum, but I
wouldn't sell it. It seemed sort of mean to sell poor old Nutty's medal.
But I'd like to give it to you, so you'll remember me when I've gone."
"Oh, but you're not--not going away, Dan!" said Freddy. "And I can't take
your medal, anyhow. I'd remember you without it. You're the best chum I
ever had,--the very best. And--and--"
The speaker broke off, stammering; for a second visitor had suddenly
appeared at his bedside: Father Regan who had entered the infirmary
unheard and unseen, and who now stood with his eyes fixed in grave
displeasure on the daring Dan.